


breathe your smoke into my lungs

by chartreuser



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: M/M, drabble-like thing??? idk, this is written in present tense eyyy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-27
Updated: 2013-08-07
Packaged: 2017-12-21 13:50:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuser/pseuds/chartreuser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a fic describing the domestic happenings of Thomas and Jimmy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a cold Saturday afternoon when Jimmy touches Thomas for the first time, after he takes a beating in his place; gloved hands brushing against a well-ironed suit as the blond nearly falls, the soles of his polished shoes missing to grip the wet kitchen floor.

"Daisy!" Mrs. Patmore’s shrill voice rings across the servants’ hall, but Thomas doesn’t pay attention to it, and he stills, observes the rise of Jimmy’s chest and the flush on his cheeks. 

“Careful.” He whispers, lightly-coloured eyes boring into his darker ones. Thomas finds himself exhaling an unknowingly held breath when the footman’s controlled gaze lands upon him, cautious, as if dealing with a wild animal.

_This thing is all a farce,_ Thomas thinks. _A great tragedy._

He doesn’t know if Jimmy really wants to be his friend, or if he’s doing it out of guilt—but he looks at him now, and Thomas is satisfied, happy. Not overjoyed, but content.

Sated.

"I’ll remember that." Jimmy says, hands tugging at his clothes to straighten them up, jaw clenching. He walks past him with a tray in his hand, lips pressed into a fine line, eyebrows furrowed. 

_Not of me,_ Thomas almost corrects, but he quiets down after Mrs. Hughes gives him a vacant look that didn’t quite seem to mean anything at all.  
-  
He’s been recovering for about three months now, maybe two, he’s losing count. It’s the urge to get back to work healthily that keeps him from changing into his livery, the slow ticking of time that makes him obediently stay in his bed.

Careful, he reminds himself, when Jimmy comes into his room, fists clenching at the sight of Thomas. He doesn’t choose to comment; flashes him a smile instead.

"How’s the family?" He asks, staining bruised fingers as he opens the newspaper. “Still mourning?" 

Jimmy nods tightly, grin strained but polite as he responds. “They’re getting better. Lady Mary, though…"

"It’ll take time."

"Right." 

There’s a pain in his chest as Jimmy looks away, his own fists forming when he glances at the clock across the room.

"I’d bette-"

"Sure." 

-

They decide to let him resume work on a breezy spring night; his smoking habits unstoppable even by strong winds as he leans against the wall in the courtyard. There’s friendly suggestions to not smoke too often by the staff, and he thinks it queer to have something akin to a family. Thomas still ignores them in the end, tobacco strong in the air as the cigarette dies slowly.

He thinks of O’Brien when he does this, her subtle twists of expression that began to adopt himself after years of working in Downton. Thomas doesn’t know if he should miss her, but it is lonely smoking alone. 

"You will be there to attend dinner tomorrow evening," Carson doesn’t look too pleased with the cigarette in his hands, and Thomas is glad. The old man could be rather naggy at times, especially when it came to his turn to lecture him about… everything. Especially the dangers of smoking.

"Mm." Thomas shrugs in response, exhales a cloud of white into the air. Jimmy taps impatiently on plastic a few metres away; doesn’t say ‘good evening’ as the staff bid their farewells to fall back to sleep.

Jimmy breathes in the scent of leftover food. Thomas blows out puffs of chalky dust.

Neither of them comment on how disheveled the other looks as they retreat into their own rooms; the tentative glance that the both of them shared enough to keep them awake that night.

-

It starts with a touch to his face, the taste of alcohol strong on their breaths as they stand at an arm’s length apart. Thomas’s face is flushed pink, a usual contrast to his pale, white demeanor, but Jimmy focuses on the crimson of his lips instead, thinks it _beautiful._

He trails his eyes over the scar that should have been his, around Thomas’s mouth as he watches the cigarette die out between soft folds, mesmerized.

"Haven’t you had a bit too much to drink?" 

"Better than you, I’d think. Are you sure you can make it back to your room without collapsing?"

A slurred nod is what he gets in response, and Jimmy laughs.

Thomas cracks a smile as the footman accompanies him back to his bed that night, doesn’t open his eyes when Jimmy touches his face; kisses him on the lips. He kisses back, fingers threaded in between strands of blond hair as a hand trails down to cup against his erection.

If the under-butler had recalled what had happened the past night, he doesn’t mention it.

-

"Are you still going to pretend nothing happened?" is what Thomas whispers into his ear one night, when Jimmy plays the piano and Alfred is quiet for once, leaving the both of them to manifest in their thoughts silently.

"I don’t know. What happened?" 

He does not miss the way Thomas’s gaze rakes over his expression carefully, eyes too calm, too distant to make him feel at ease. _He knows I’m lying,_ he thinks, but tries to keep himself as collected as possible despite the hammering in his ears, the excessive blinking. He’s going to play it cool, be the one with the upper hand—

"Nothing." 

"Well, then." The corners of Jimmy’s mouth quirk up into a smile, though the minuscule widening of his eyes give him away. _Don’t be mad at me,_ he hopes, _I’m scared._ Bates was somewhere near, and Alfred too— but he’s not worried about himself, but actually kind of likes the attention—

He’s sure Thomas has caught him—

_At what?_ The voice at the back of his mind snorts, and Jimmy kicks himself mentally. _You haven’t done anything wrong—_

"I’m patient."

"Again, I can’t give you what you want."

"I doubt you’re qualified enough to say that."

"Yes, Mr. Barrow. Sorry, Mr. Barrow," Jimmy rolls his eyes in an awful attempt to break the tension but heightens it up more, and he swallows, too unused to tender tones and carefully-plucked words.

Even from a man like Thomas Barrow.

"It would be nice if you could, though."


	2. Chapter 2

"Mmm, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?" Jimmy grins almost uncomfortably, gaze shifting towards Alfred. Jimmy can feel Thomas’s breath when he inhales and wills his heart to quiet down, fails when Thomas takes another step towards him. 

"I think I would." Thomas replies before heading off to answer to Carson, and Jimmy’s grin widen when he feels the under-butler’s hand pat on his arm. 

_I’d like that too._

-

He isn’t sure what to make of his relationship with Jimmy until he finds their mouths pressed together in the middle of the night; a pleasant surprise. He bites down on Jimmy’s bottom lip, relishes in it when he lets out a quiet moan. 

"I thought I should join you," Jimmy says. “Give you a taste of what it feels like to be me."

"I don’t think you’d feel as happy as me to be kissed randomly in bed, really."

"…I didn’t mean _that,_ silly." He rolls his eyes and Thomas chuckles, grunts when the blond slips and falls onto him.

"Oi. You’re much heavier than you’d think."

"If you’re going to complain about that, I’m leaving immediately." Jimmy retorts, and Thomas laughs, presses a light kiss to his brow. _Careful,_ he tells himself again, afraid that he’d frighten off the man in his arms by his affections.

(He thinks of him and his first love hidden away, kissing behind a tree; thinks of the burnt letters left in Phillip’s trail. He thinks of Edward and all the missed opportunities they had between them, and he thinks of Jimmy now, knows that he’s the one that has every reason to be scared here—)

Thomas snaps out of his thoughts when Jimmy’s voice rings in his ear, all concerned and worried like a proper friend(!) that he claims that the both of them are, and he finds it ridiculous that Jimmy’s doing all this to make fun of him.

"What’s wrong? I could leave, if you’re not comfortable—" The blond gestures towards the door, lips curled up comfortingly and warmly and Thomas doesn’t know how to deal with all this _affection_ that isn’t his own; almost wants to start crying.

"No. Please, don’t leave. I was jus’ thinking, really." Thomas replies, lips almost pursing as he exhales a deep breath, anxious for a cigarette. 

"Really? About what?" Jimmy asks, and Thomas feels his breath against his neck, feels a shudder run down his spine when he sits up, effectively brushing against his inner thigh. “I know ways to help you forget what you were thinking about." He smirks suggestively, and Thomas flushes when he feels lips trailing down the contours of his chest, bites back a groan.

He doesn’t know how to deal with Jimmy now, all seductive and flirtatious and charming, though he does hope to deal with more of this in the future.

"Are you sure?"

"Well, no, but I could tell that you want it as much as me. Now stay still. Don’t be too loud."

Thomas chuckles and does what Jimmy says, hands weaving into the waves of his hair as he wonders if he should start persuading Jimmy to start smoking.

(Sure enough, he forgets about Phillip and Edward and everything else; hopes that he gets more opportunities to forget in the future as well because _oh, god—_ )

-

Being in service isn’t as easy as some people think. You have to stand at attention, keep silent, answer to all those high-class people when they’re having a bad day. Thomas doesn’t think that being in service suits Jimmy, thinks him more appropriate to be living like how Matthew Crawley did, no worries and no fret for money.

He wishes he could provide that for him; a life filled with comfort would suit Jimmy.

"Don’t you regret this? Needing to serve dinner to all these snobs all the time?" He asks when everybody has gone to bed and the both of them are the only ones left, like so many nights before.

 _Easier to go bed together this way,_ Jimmy had reasoned. _Safer._

"No, not quite." Jimmy squints at his cards, looks up when he lays one onto the space between them. “You ask that as if I have another choice." 

"Jus’ trying to make conversation."

"Why that question specifically, then?"

Thomas looks down at his choices, realises that it’s his turn. A thousand romantic sentences come into mind, but he doesn’t think it necessary, sends Jimmy a small smile instead.

He counts it a victory when Jimmy yanks the cigarette out of his mouth to press a hot, sultry kiss against his lips.

-

There are days where Thomas is tired and even Carson is unwilling to let him serve dinner to Tom Branson, eyebrows furrowing at the sight of him all lethargic.

"I’ll get Jimmy to go fetch something for you," he barks when he almost loses his grasp of the tray, “I’ll take care of Mr. Branson." 

Mrs. Hughes send him a worried stare when Carson smoothly takes his load into his hands, a nod sent to his direction before he retreats back to his room. “I’m sorry." He manages a small smile towards the old lady, slightly unused to the fondness she shows him after ‘the beating’.

"It’s alright now, just go and get yourself sorted out properly."

Thomas doesn’t miss the look she casts Jimmy when he exits the servants’ hall a few seconds later, frightened for the both of them until he remembers that it is _Mrs. Hughes_ that he is thinking about, that she’s one of the nicest people he’s ever met. He clenches his jaw, ashamed for doubting such a trait of hers.

(He isn’t used to kindness, isn’t used to kind Miss Sybil and Jimmy and Mrs. Hughes and everyone else that has shown him warmth without a trace of mockery—)

"She’s kind, she is." Thomas cuts off Jimmy abruptly when he’s reading something out of the paper about America, tightens his hand around his almost sadly. “Mrs. Hughes, I mean."

"What about her?" He feels an urge to trace every line of Jimmy’s face when his eyes look up to his, eyelashes almost batting as he shifts closer to him, wonders if Narcissus from the stories had ever looked like him. 

_Probably,_ Thomas thinks. _Every bit as beautiful._

"I think she has an inkling of what goes on between us." 

"That… Is that a problem?" Jimmy bites his lip and Thomas presses his forehead against his before leaning in to kiss him, sliding his hand around the other’s waist tentatively. He’d be lying if he said he doesn’t want to continue on, but he’s made a deal not to start anything and leaves it at that.

He could live with that. He’s lived with less before.

"No, I don’t think so." He whispers as he pulls away from Jimmy, grins like an idiot. “We’re safe, I believe."

Thomas feels as if he’s never been happier.


	3. Chapter 3

If clouds are solid, he thinks that there may be a chance of Thomas Barrow waking him up after a good night’s rest, the scent of tobacco suspended in the space between—when they share the same surname, the same bed, the same house. Could marriage work with people of the same gender? Jimmy does not find the question problematic in the least, favours it more than any wet dream he has had of the man that lies squeezed next to him every night—

But dreams are dreams, nonetheless, and if the clock by his bed isn’t alarming enough, the thought of Thomas in prison is.

…Though, really. Marriage with Thomas?

The idea is comforting on its own, he finds, as he polishes silver with a quiet vigor, relishes stolen glances towards Thomas better than gold. The under butler is talking to Alfred; crimson lips forming his every word as he twists and bends those soft folds effortlessly. 

_It’s a work of art on its own._

Jimmy Kent is a man in love when he remembers Thomas’s tongue on his throat, words melting on his skin as he leaves empty phrases behind, an underpriced artist of love.

Never mind the clouds turning solid: Jimmy thinks that he is a mortal fortunate enough to recall such pleasant memories of **sweat and lust and heat**  that lingers between two men’s bodies until sunlight hits the curtains.

_But what a nice thing to think back to, indeed—_

It’s a ludicrous fantasy if he ever had one; Thomas Barrow being able to live with him openly, walk hand in hand for the entire world to see—Jimmy Kent knows that having puffy clouds turn solid would be more realistic than being Thomas’s husband.

 _Dreaming is a good thing_ , Jimmy tells himself.  _It reminds you of reality._

-

"We are smudged lines on a painter’s canvas," he murmurs to himself one day, feels a familiar sob pressing back to the confines of his heart as Thomas dresses himself at the corner of the mirror. "The ink’s too dry to wipe away, so it stains; and we become the achilles’ heel of a masterpiece."

He has no idea when he has become so poetic, but he does not see any problem with it, not when it rouses fondness within the eyes of a creature that has ascended from the hell underneath; a peculiar sight.

"You’re saying that God’s a painter, now?" Jimmy’s lover raises his eyebrows, exhales air more refreshing than a ocean’s breeze. "What an odd boy I’ve fallen in love with," Thomas muses, envelopes his heart with wax so it solidifies and now Jimmy is his, forever his,  **solidified**  in Thomas’s grasp—

"Well, then. This foolish man thanks the lord above that you’ve fallen in love with James Kent, the best footman to ever grace the earth." Jimmy lets out an uneasy chuckle, washes off his affections with a glass of alcohol down his throat. "Aren’t you a lucky man."

"I think it’s fate that brought us together, not luck." Jimmy corrects the man with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, wipes away the smirk on his face with a kiss. 

 _Yes_ , he thinks, _it’s the little flaws that complete the idea of perfection._

-

"The plot thickens," Thomas observes after they watch Carson and Mrs. Hughes dance hopelessly around each other’s feet, smiles coyer than a pair of teenagers as the old man presents the lady with a small flower. Thomas realizes that it’s Valentine’s Day, yes, but was there really a need to act so sappily in front of the entire staff?

Jimmy practically choked on his breakfast, which wasn’t a good thing in his book, not at all, not when he’d choked his cereal back onto his  _suit_.

"What a romantic." Jimmy rolls his eyes, feels Thomas’s stubble press against his bare collarbone. "Should I start demanding such acts from you, then? Thomas Barrow, extraordinaire of romance… Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?"

"Right." Thomas sighs, his exhale ghosting the contours of Jimmy’s throat as the man rolls his eyes at him, an affectionate gesture the blond had grown to be fond of. "So you’re going to start making me sign legal contracts to recite poetry as I strip you bare now, is that it?"

"Well, I wouldn’t mind. You could start making a habit out of that, yes. Very atmospheric. Lovely, really. Recite one now. I insist."

"And here I thought you were the more poetic one out of us both," Thomas mumbles into his ear, leaves goosebumps to make their way down beneath. "I even remember you saying something artistic. Something about God painting us."

Jimmy chuckles, leans back into Thomas’s touch as he traces his features with his gaze a touch too intense, but the under butler doesn’t seem to mind, and Jimmy smooths his hand over the length of his face, falls silent.

"I suppose you agree then?"

"About God painting us as… you know, the doomed, beautiful lovers?"

"No; I think the only beautiful thing he painted was you."

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Ellie Goulding's Figure 8.


End file.
